


The Red of You

by Dreadful Weather Today (TearoomSaloon)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bittersweet, Blindness, F/M, Injury Recovery, Meta, Trust Issues, color motief, is it fluffy?, is it sad?, post mizumono, slow building relationship, we just don't know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-08-13
Packaged: 2018-01-26 20:48:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1702046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TearoomSaloon/pseuds/Dreadful%20Weather%20Today
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're blind," was the first thing she realized upon hitting the pavement. Her brain didn't have the courtesy to make the world black—it was all gray now. Gray shapes of gray nothingness. She can't tell her visitors apart unless they speak, and she doesn't know how to react when a familiar voice greets her in place of Will's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hospital Beds

**Author's Note:**

> There's meta going around (link is in the first sentence) about Alana having cortical blindness as a result of her fall. Of course I snooped around and did some research and this particular type is different than black-out everything's-gone blindness. As an avid reader of medical journals (they're boring as shit but welcome to the land of good grades), I can tell you this is 100% not how cortical blindness works, starting immediately with the color balance. It wouldn't be affected (that's actually how people keep their shit together with this impairment), but the inability to process things in motion is a common occurrence.
> 
> But fuck it, it's fiction. I don't have a running theme without the color crap, so have a compilation of prompts that I'm somehow pulling into a plot.

here is the depressing-ass [meta](http://bonearenaofmyskull.tumblr.com/post/87046735562/cortical-blindness)

* * *

In the vast, stretching planes of gray, there was the bleakest of suns. It sat heavy in its blinding sky, casting weak rays down onto the gray grasses that filled the world from end to end. The grasses never swayed, never moved, but sat stagnant on their roots, There were birds singing, but there were no birds to be seen.

When she opened her eyes, the world was still gray. There was no change, sleep to wakefulness. Shapes formed in the barest of senses, but the colors didn't come, and nothing moved.

Nothing ever moved.

She knew she was in a hospital bed, hearing the monitors hum softly under the bustle of the busy days and nights. Nurses came to change things—she never knew what—and checked her vitals before leaving. They'd speak to her, and she could hear the pity and pain in their tones.  _She's so young_ , she heard between their words,  _it's so unfair_.

It was all so unfair.

But, that was her price. She paid dearly for her mistake, for her rash moment of utter fear and adrenaline. She tried to be more than she was, stronger than she was, and she fell. Down, down, onto the stone.

The rain turned gray. The sky turned gray. The world turned gray.

She had visitors, thankfully. Jack came twice a week with flowers—she could smell them, see the gray of them. He never had good news, but she appreciated it all the same. They had no idea where the monster had run off, and they had no idea if they could catch him. It made her stomach hurt.

There'd be a kiss on her forehead and a soft  _it's Will_  that would make her smile. He'd sit with her and talk about his day of bandages and narcotics and terrible hospital food. He never stayed long, too weak from his own injuries, too hurt to move much, but he figured he could check up on her, make sure she was doing better than he.

She slept so much now. There was little to do but sleep. And cry. She had to try her best not to think or tears would roll down from her sightless eyes, hot gray streaks on her hot gray cheeks. She couldn't read again, and she cried. She couldn't see her mother's face, look at photographs of her and her siblings when they were little, couldn't look upon Will again, couldn't see if he'd ever smile. She couldn't see his dogs, or her dog, or her house and the gardens and the sun and the ocean. She'd never see her own children when the time came— _if_  the time came.

A thumb brushed tears from her face and two lips softly kissed her forehead. Her hair was brushed back gently with delicate hands—a pianist's hands—and tucked gingerly behind an ear.

"I haven't seen you in a while," she said quietly. "Well, I haven't seen anything in a while." She'd been wondering where Will had been for a week. Maybe he'd been discharged and was unable to visit, too exhausted for anything but sleep.

There was no word of recognition from her guest, who continued to primp her hair. No word of recognition when a hand laced with hers.

But she recognized.

Her heart froze and her stomach sank, knowing those fingers too well. Those fingers that held hers for so many hours, that ran across her skin as though she were an orchestra and he were conducting a symphony. Those fingers that knew her better than anyone else.

"Hannibal."

His name fell out of her mouth in broken pieces, tinkling to the floor. She was too scared to move, thinking he must be here to kill her. To finish the job. She's incapacitated now, what's the point? Please, just leave her and be gone.

"My brave little princess."

The words sounded heartbroken. He knew she couldn't see him, but still he let emotion into his tone. She felt his lips press so gently to her hand, his breath warm against her skin. "You were so composed at the end, Alana. You were so brave, even after I told you to be blind."

"Now I'm both." She wanted to jerk her hand and smash into his face, but she wasn't sure where he was. He was gray, as everything else, but his shape was less coherent, less visible to her.

He chuckled softly. "Now you are both, but in neither way I wanted." He stroked his thumb over the back of her hand and kissed all her knuckles.

It was freaking her out.

"Have you come to kill me?"

"Absolutely not." She heard him shift his weight while he rested a hand upon her shoulder. "I've come to say goodbye. Whether it's forever or just a little while is up to you."

She didn't speak.

"I hoped you would have had the sense to leave, of course. To prevent all of this. This was the last thing I wanted for you, if you'll trust my word."

"I don't know if I can."

"Which is understandable. I doubt I'd trust you if we were to switch positions." He sighed and kissed her cheek, letting his forehead rest against hers. "I've never loved a woman like I do you, and I don't think I will again. Never again can someone love me as innocently as you did, and for your gift I am grateful."

"Do."

"Pardon?"

"As I  _do_  love you, not as I did." The tears spilled over. "Unconditionally, painfully."

She reached out her clumsy hands and made contact with the gray mass of him, searching for his neck, searching to cup his head. This beastly boy wearing an adult's mask, this grumpy dragon prince, this monster, her lion, her king—

The world explodes into colors when her lips find his. On him she tastes smoked salmon and white wine, on him she smells French airs and that airy, elegant musk that is his own, on him she sees the burgundy of his suit and the paleness of his cheeks. The details are wavering and unsteady, but the colors are there, bright and rich and wonderful. She holds him so tightly, needs him so badly, wants him so deeply. Behind her eyes, the plains flash into wild greens rippling under the wind. The sky stains blue and the sun is so warm she can feel her chest begin to heat and burn as she kisses him. She kisses him for so long she can feel the world fill up and swell with palettes of color.

Everything faded back to gray when they broke apart. He gave off the slightest shimmer of movement, but not enough to comfort her and she cried out, scared and confused.

"I could see you," she whispered, her hands still buried in his hair. "I could  _see_  the color your suit and the pink of your cheeks and everything was so bright."

"Your brain may not be as damaged as thought," he hummed by her ear. "You'll never be able to see fully, but parts of your vision will improve with time."

"I might be able to see you smile again."

He drew in a breath but his expression was lost on her. "You might," he agreed. "You might."

"You'll know where to find me when it's safe," she told him, reluctantly retracting her hands. "I cannot say I don't want justice brought upon you, but that will not be my job and I am no longer a player in this game. For either side."

"I'd ask you of nothing more."

She sat still as he untangled himself from her, pulling away until she could no longer tell where he stood. "Kiss me once more before you leave?"

A soft peck. A gentle, loving peck on the lips, lingering a half second longer than it should. A cloud of red engulfs her and she feels calm, wanted, loved. His love of her—however twisted and potentially poisonous—tinges the gray of her world pink. It stays a slight pink until her heartrate evens out and she can breathe steadily again.

When he pulled away the second time, she wasn't as surprised. She could see the red of his eyes—faintly, and only if he stood still—and felt a crimson blossom of hope bud inside her core.

"I'll see you in a few months, sweet pea."

" _Please_  stop calling me that," he chuckled and crossed the room, his footsteps fading away from her.

"And Hannibal?"

The sound of his exit halted. "Yes?"

"I love you. I want you dead, but I love you."

She could hear a smile—gold and warm—as he spoke. "I love you too, my beautiful little princess. I, however, do not want you dead, but I love you."

He vanished from her room, leaving her alone in this gray continuum. She felt better when she slept. Dreams were no longer the same as wakefulness. The plains were gray and the grass never moved. But the sun was a warm burgundy, and when she was in a good mood, he stood beside her and kissed her until the world was saturated and painted with the red of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you are my sunshine, my only sunshine  
> you make me happy when skies are gray  
> you'll never know dear, how much I love you  
> please don't take my sunshine away


	2. A Bark in the Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A request was made to continue at least one more chapter, and this is the at least one more chapter
> 
> now with 50% more fluff

The ocean was the slightest blue. Not a blue in the sense that sapphires and aquamarines were blue, but blue in the way that ice was blue. So slightly, so gently a color hidden under white. The saturation levels of the world had been brought calmly down into faint tints scattered among the gray. On some days, however, the sky was a magnificent azure and the grass was such a rich emerald that she felt like crying. She did cry frequently when the colors first started to return, having been under the impression that she'd seen the end of the earth.

On those good days, things moved. Alana would sit in front of her vanity, focusing and refocusing on her face. Her eyes were so blue and her hair shone like chestnuts, rich and hearty and warm, like Thanksgiving. The details weren't as foggy, but she was convinced makeup shouldn't be attempted.

Applesauce wasn't trained as a seeing-eye dog, and was therefore useless at the task. Will took her in when he got his strength back, promising to watch over her until she adjusted. That's where Jellybean had come in.

"She likes jellybeans," Alana muttered when questioned about her dog's name.

"Are you going to name the next one after food too?" Will asked. She could see a smudge of his pale skin hiding the white of his teeth.

She smiled, knowing he was smiling. "Maybe."

It was Jellybean who alerted her to the change of pace.

It was early afternoon, she figured, by the brightness of the sun coming through her windows. A sleek, quiet car rolled up her short driveway and Jellybean barked once from the kitchen, announcing a visitor. Alana set down a color wheel she'd been fiddling with (she'd taken to twist them around in hopes she'd get more than muted tones) and opened the front door.

The figure before her was red. Red like a rich wine, thick and luminous. She squinted, trying to force her brain to detect something other than  _red_ , because red wasn't helping her recognize the stranger. After a moment, the color receded to his eyes, and blotches of ashy-blonde fell over the rosy hue of his skin.

"Hannibal?"

"Good afternoon, Alana dear." His figure grew dark as he bowed to kiss her forehead. "May I come in?"

She swayed from the frame to allow his broad shoulders through. She could just make out where the top of his head was against the white of the ceiling. She'd forgotten how tall he was.

"Is something the matter?"

"It's safe, so I've come back."

"It's  _not_  safe. Jack's still looking for you. I could call—"

"I've thrown them from my trail and you, darling, promised not to intervene for either side last time we spoke."

She recalled the conversation. It was over six months ago, before her sight began to improve. She had said that, hadn't she? "Doesn't mean I don't want to."

He chuckled and approached her, his leather shoes soft on her hardwood floors. "I know. But you won't, which is ideal, considering I've come to collect you."

" _Pardon?_ "

One of his hands brushed against her cheek, his fingers turning redder the closer they got. "I'm taking you with me. I've missed you terribly."

"I don't want to."

The words startled her a bit, but she stood firm.

"I can't see too well, I'm still recovering, it's hard to get around. I have a  _dog_  to take care of—actually, she takes care of  _me_. Will has my other dog, and I don't want that to be a permanent loan."

Hannibal was quiet, formulating an answer. His hands fell gradually to her hips, holding her lightly before him. The red of his eyes grew hotter the more he touched her, and she felt her heart begin to beat like a caged bird. "We can go slowly. I'll be your eyes, and you can take your dog...please don't say a food—"

"—Jellybean—"

"Good  _lord_ , woman." He pressed his lips to her forehead. "Applesauce, Jellybean, what's next? Gravlax?"

"I'm not going to name a dog after fish—it'd be eating itse— _don't you dare make a joke, Hannibal_."

He grew very quiet. " _The Hound of the Cannibals_ _._ "

It wasn't—it was so  _bad—_ she—she couldn't help laughing at it. Alana fell against his chest, trying to quell the giggles. He was so warm, even through all those layers of suit and tailor, and he smelled of rich earth and clear air. She'd forgotten how much she'd missed this part of him, the playful part that he did so well to lock up and guard nearly every second of wakefulness. She'd forgotten how much she missed his touch, his voice, his body under hers when she slept.

She hadn't forgotten how much he'd hurt her. And for that, she wanted to say no and lock her doors, knowing he wouldn't pursue her further.

If she could manifest her love for him into a blade, she'd drive it through his chest with no second thought. She hated this man so much. Almost as much as she loved him.

"I'll slow you down," she said into his chest, into the fabric of his clothes. "I'll be a burden. And I'll want to constantly slit your throat."

"You won't be a burden. And I doubt you'll be able to find my neck."

"You're the  _worst_." She stood on tiptoes to nip at the small slip of skin in between the planes of red and red. "Where would you even  _take_  me?"

"Tuscany, Vienna, Normandy, Bavaria—wherever you wanted to go."

"Can I say goodbye?"

"It's best not to, or they'll know."

"Will has my dog."

"And he'll still have her when you get back. I won't take you forever, just a little while." He wrapped his arms around her waist and tucked her head under his chin. "Only as long as you want."

"Which is forever." She wiped away tears— _tears?_  When did she start crying?—and laid her hands on his shoulders. "If you're going, I'm going too. Kicking and screaming the whole way, but I'm going."

"And you want to do this?"

"Of course. I want to stay with you. I want to stay inside the red of you, the heat of you." She looked up into his eyes, his scalding, burning red eyes. "Because I love you."

Scarlet sparks popped around her vision as she watched his reaction as best she could. He was grinning like an idiot, wearing the most innocent expression she'd ever seen on his face. "And because _I_ love _you,_ I'm going to show you the world. Or Europe, at least."

"I won't be able to see it."

"Not as well as you could have, but—"

"—No." She cut him off. "I won't be able to see it because all I'll see is red. Your red." She stood to kiss his cheek—or tried, instead kissing his chin. "I'm not letting you out of my varying sight."

"I'm not letting you out of my varying  _bed,"_  he chuckled, leaning to kiss her—he was spot on, of course, fluttering little ladybugs through her stomach.

"It'll be like Christmas all over again, except in the summer."

"It'll be like Christmas all over again, except now I won't have to wrap your presents."

"You  _ass!"_ _  
_

"I've been called worse." He pecked her, his lips like strawberries. "I'll help pack your things, we're catching a plane to Barcelona in three hours."

"We're going to Spain?" _  
_

"You can pick next city or country, if you'd like."

"You're making being on the run from the law into a vacation."

"Anything can be a vacation as long as I'm with you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you taste it? Can you taste the saccharine nature of it?  
> Gonna rot your teeth, that's what.


	3. Beside, Below

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another prompt to continue was suggested and continue I did.  
> I was asked to write about Hannibal regaining Alana's trust, as well as some reactions to her sudden disappearance.

Airport carpets looked the same, half-blind or not. Vibrant, hideous colors popped under her feet as she followed Hannibal through terminal after terminal, airport after airport. She was surprised they all gave off the feeling of  _airport_  regardless of what was the area’s natural language. They reminded her of bowling alleys and elevators and hold music—all different, yet all strangely the same no matter where you were. The sameness comforted her in this world of partial vision.

"Where are we this time?"

He made a habit of not telling her when he picked. It didn’t much matter—they were traveling with the same luggage and the summer weather was fair. No worrying about heavy clothes or gloves and scarves (not that Alana wasn’t prepared). 

"How good is your German?"

"Atrocious. Sub-par at best."

"Good thing we’re in Italy."

Her Italian was marginally better.

It was a beautiful country. Or, so she figured, only able to see the more colorful bits, and only when relatively stationary. The stress from running around with Hannibal had impeded her healing process, and she no longer had much time to sit down and observe. There was no breathing time, no rest, no—

"Are you still insisting we sleep in separate beds?"

Alana opened an eye. She was sprawled out on the queen in the upstairs bedroom. Hannibal, being the resourceful ass he was, maintained several villas in Europe. She guessed he was embezzling money, probably from older clients. “I am.”

"For any particular reason?"

"Other than the ones I’ve already given?"

The mattress sank and a weight pressed against her stomach. With a roll of her eyes, she let her fingers lace into his hair. “Are you trying to appeal to me by acting cute?”

"Only if it’s working."

"It’s out of character."

"I’m desperate." He slung an arm around her hips. "I miss waking up to your warmth beside me."

"We haven't slept in the same bed in over six months. How much can you miss it?"

"More than you miss that mutt of yours."

"Jellybean is a purebred Lab." She sat up, jerking away. "Don’t you  _dare_  use my dog as a comparison—I’m going to see her again before I let myself fall asleep beside you.”

"But  _why_  is that?”

Alana was on her feet, walking quickly from the room. "Because I don’t trust you, Hannibal."

She slammed the door upon her exit, marched down the stairs (she counted to keep track of where she was) threw herself onto the bed in the red room—the one where she usually slept—and  _screamed_. Awful, awful man. Horrible, stupid, miserable Hannibal. Why had she agreed to go with him? Why had she let him pack her things and practically carry her through the airport? And the next airport? Why had she left her dog with Bedelia when they got to Paris?  _Why?_

Oh, right, those three words. Those three words she tossed at him to test the water. Those three words he shot right back without pausing to breathe.

 _I love you_.

Sure, she loved him, but she wasn’t about to let him back into her bed. She still wanted to send bullets through his heart for all he’d done. She knew he meant it when he said it back, but that didn’t mean she’d cave.

Oh good  _Christ_  she wanted to crawl into bed with him and tuck herself into his arms  _so badly it was starting to hurt_. But she couldn’t—It’d show weakness.

He found her outside by the fountain when the sun began to set. She couldn’t see it too well—a mush of pinks and purples and oranges all thrown into a blender, nothing too special. She was fixated on one of the spitting lions, how the jet of water came out his mouth at such a beautiful angle.

"Is this what you meant by you’d come kicking and screaming?" he asked as he sat down beside her, his back to hers.

"I guess it is."

"Do you  _guess_  it’ll stop anytime soon? Or are you going to antagonize every attempt I make at restoring our relationship?”

"You’re the reason we’re like this.  _You_. It’s your fault I’m blind—semi-blind— _whatever_. You hurt me. How can you  _possibly_  expect things to fall back into place? Because you’re selfish and manipulative?”

"Because I’m greedy and I’ve cut you off from the outside world." There wasn’t a hint of sarcasm in his tone. "Because I love you viciously and because I  _get what I want_. And I want you, I picked you.”

"You’re convincing me to leave."

"I’m trying to be  _honest_.” A whine climbed into his voice. “I skidded around the truth with you, and I vowed I wouldn’t again if you got on that plane with me, and you did. I don’t like brutal honesty, it tastes too bitter.”

"Do you think you’re going to win me over with—"

"No. I don’t. But it’s a start to a more trusting relationship, whether you ever want to be intimate again or not."

"Do  _you_ _?_ ”

"Only if you want to. I don’t want to sway your decision one way or the other, it’d be deceitful."

She sighed. She was caving. “I want you to carry me inside and cuddle with me and maybe we can take a nap together. I want things to go back to normal.”

"Is that a rhetorical request or do you want me to obey?"

"Whatever you want at this point."

She squeaked as he swooped her up into his arms bridal style, graceful as a springbok. He was gentle as he laid her out on her bed, removing shoes before settling beside her.

She rolled up against his blotchy crimson mass, trying to bury herself in his chest. She’d missed him, she’d missed him, she’d missed everything about him.

"This is, for right now, a one-time deal, got it?" she said while weaving her fingers with his. She wasn't being very convincing—to herself or Hannibal. "I want to take this revival slowly."

"We'll do everything according to how you feel," he agreed, kissing her forehead.

Oh, fuck this. She retracted her hands and pushed him onto his back, moving to lie on top of him. They hadn't kissed since they left France, and now she was going to kiss him senseless. She had this handsome, charming, slightly psychotic man under her thumb and she'd been avoiding contact for weeks but  _why?_

She remembered exactly how he tasted—like ripe strawberries and a heady wine that filled her up with scarlet butterflies. She missed the little explosions of color his touch elicited, and she remembered  _why_  she'd agreed to come in the first place—he was a painter's palette to her world. He brought shades and hues and tones into everything, made spaces brighter just by holding her hand. _  
_

Oh, maybe she'd lie here beside him forever. Maybe she'd close her eyes in his arms, maybe she'd sleep for a few hours. Oh, maybe she'd never stop loving him, but she was okay with that. As long as he was, too.

* * *

"Do you think she found him?"

Will sat in Crawford's office after hours, a brandy in a tired hand. "No, I think  _he_  found  _her._  It was going to happen, the only question was when. Any clue where they are?"

"None." Will didn't look too worried and it was visibly affecting Jack. "Somewhere overseas, I assume, but past that, we don't have an idea."

"He's not going to kill her and I doubt she's a hostage."

"What is she, then?"

"His lover." The words were tart on his tongue. "They've been attached to each other since day one; I doubt the accident changed much."

"You still love her."

"Of course I do, but..." He finished his glass. "I'm not about to chase after women hiding in tiger skins. Especially when that skin is attached to a hungry, living beast. If you'll excuse me, Jack, I've got to take one of the dogs to the vet early in the morning."

"By all means. Get home safe."

"You too. I'll see you on Monday."

Jack sighed as the door closed, watching Will walk with a grumpy purpose. He'd lost his best not-quite agent and two psychiatrists to this mess—one turning out to be the Ripper, the other still deeply loving of the first, even after being blinded in the bloodbath.

What shitty luck. Hopefully his next prospective protégé didn't turn out as unstable as the last lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Will.  
> Poor Jack.  
> Oh but look rekindling love awww how cute.  
> did I just mention clarice? you'll probably never know.


	4. Touch Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt this round was the first time they bang after the accident so now I present to you vague artsy sex.
> 
> walk into the club like whaddup I can't stop writing this so fluffily help me

Alana's breath was short as she stood in the kitchen. She'd been out running on the beach—flat, objectless, hard to smash face-first into poles or people—and she could feel a wooziness begin to creep into her vision. Some days were better than others, some days were worse. She wanted to take advantage of being able to see more than twenty feet in front of her by exercising, but the lack there of in the past left her exhausted.

"Will you make me a sandwich?" She sunk onto a stool at the island, slumping forward onto the counter.

Hannibal, preparing fish on the other side of the kitchen, raised an eyebrow. "Go shower."

"But I'm  _hungry_."

"I'll feed you when you're clean; go shower."

"You're going to feed me fish and but I want a sandwich."

"Alana," he warned, slicing away a section of gurnard. "Please don't be difficult."

With a huff, she left the kitchen for the upstairs bathroom. She'd taken to using his shower; it was slightly bigger, there was more soap, and everything smelled like him. She was again growing accustomed to his scent on her skin.

She'd taken to sleeping beside him again three weeks ago. Slowly, at first, with scattered hours and touches. After a few nights, he held her close, not letting her slink off at one, two in the morning. Secretly, she was glad for it.

"If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to turn in early tonight."

Alana quirked her lips, pouring a glass of wine. "I don't see how this affects me—it's a Friday, I'm sleeping alone."

"Let me rephrase—I'd like you to come to bed with me early so you won't fall right asleep."

"It's my night." She corked the bottle, returning to the sofa. "No."

"You haven't even heard my pitch."

"There's nothing to hear—I'm going to have a bit of wine, read, and go to sleep. Alone."

"I loathe sleeping alone."

"Well," she patted his thigh, tone all levels of condescending, "should have thought of that months ago."

"You'll be the death of me."

"Damn right I will." She tucked her head onto his shoulder, feeling a small jump of red butterflies as he laid a hand on her waist. "I know what you're asking, and the answer is soon."

"Soon" was mid Sunday afternoon. Her vision wasn't the best, but she was curious of how things would change. She stood before him in the den wearing the one sheer nightgown she owned. In this, she commanded his absolute attention.

"Are you sure?" He was staring up at her, face blank, book closed, and lips slightly parted.

"I'm nervous and a bit worried we won't fit together the same way, but yes. I'm sure."

"We'll always fit together."

He scooped her up like a bride and carried her to his bed, setting her on the edge. "Would you like me to do the honors, or would you be more comfortable undressing yourself?"

"Go slowly."

He started with a kiss—the same way they began the first time. He wasn't rough at first—it had taken a week to stop asking about everything he did—and he wasn't rough now, slowly gliding fabric from her body. She couldn't see how he was looking at her clearly, but she knew the exact expression from the slight curve of his lips; wonder. He was in complete awe of her, like she were a statue or a painting. Every inch of her body was art to him, and it made her shiver.

He worshiped her.

"I love you, dearly," he said as he let the silk of her panties fall to the floor, "and I'd like to continue having your favor after tonight, so I want you to tell me the moment you're uncomfortable."

"You don't need to be so delicate; it's not our first time together."

"It's our first time in a long while, and it's first after your impairment. This will be a new experience, and I don't want to push you."

He let her undo the buttons of his shirt while he kissed her, stripping whatever layers she couldn't reach. He was so gentle, pushing her hair behind her ears, kissing where her forehead met her nose. So gentle, lying her down across the mattress, kissing up her stomach to her cheeks, nuzzling her neck. He made red burst from her skin wherever he touched her, his crimson spilling onto her body and all over the sheets.

He was never once rough, fingers playing delicate notes on her hips, her breasts, before finally locking into hers. He liked the word love, she remembered, and it tasted like cherries when he pressed it to her mouth. He could say it quickly, like a heartbeat, or slowly, like a lifetime, and still it carried more weight than a mountain on her chest. It pushed down on her body, settling like water over her limbs.

Each movement of his body was a new color. His fingers were gold, his chest was red, and his lips were the color of the moon, painting her in strange, vibrant hues. Something had gotten reassembled in her brain, something wasn't understanding how emotions weren't visible, but she didn't care right now; she was hot as an ember under him, her legs wrapped around his searing torso, hands in his burning fingers. He stayed as close to her as he could, and she wondered if he were scared of losing her in the sheets. She should be easy to find again—he'd turned her into a rainbow.

Her climax was red.

Everything,  _everything_  went red. Something shorted out and sparked and all she could see was crimson, and crimson meant Hannibal, Hannibal, Hannibal. His color, his wonderful, beautiful red. Alana was drifting through this space where she couldn't tell one object from another, couldn't sense the end of her body and the start of his. She was suffocating in the pigment, lost, unanchored, dazed—

The end of the spasms brought a close to the color wash, bringing her vision back to its now-normal level. She must have looked pained, because his face had become a mask of worry.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fantastic, what's wrong?"

"You screamed and stopped moving for a brief moment." He rolled off her, arms strained and sore. "Did I hurt you?"

"No, no, the opposite." She snuggled up to him, resting her forehead against his. "It was great. More than great."

"So great you'd be up to do it again?"

"Don't push it. It was exhausting in a different way."

"Do you want to tell me about it?"

"I don't know how. I just...I just sort of felt consumed by you. Like we were whole. Everything went red and for a split second I  _thought_  we were one." Nudging forward an inch, she placed a soft kiss on his lips. "I missed this. I missed being intimate with you."

"As I missed and constantly yearn for every cell, every inch, and every thought that makes you who you are."

She laughed. "I don't understand you—one second you're a blood-lusting killer, the next, the most romantic man I've had the pleasure of sharing breathing space with."

"It helps that you've always seen me around what I love most."

"And what's that?"

"Good food."

Alana smacked his arm. "The  _worst,_  Hannibal, you are the  _worst_."

"Fine. The correct answer is a beautiful doctor I've mentored. She's about your height, silky dark hair, the bluest eyes imaginable—do you know her?"

"Does she hang around with a tall, handsome, European man with an eccentric but tasteful style?"

"My suits are not  _eccentric_."

"How do you know I'm talking about you? This could be anyone."

"Darling, I love you dearly, but I may have to hunt down this lover of yours. I'm very selfish when it comes to my things."

"You're underestimating how possessive I get about things I love. I'll just kill off my doppelgänger and we're even."

"Done." He kissed her forehead, readjusting the hand on her waist. "If it's all right with you, I'd like to lay here in quiet for a bit."

"Sick of hearing me talk?"

"No, just want to enjoy your company without needing to think."

"Only if you don't mind me falling asleep."

"Beside me?" He hugged her closer. "I'd prefer it."


	5. Bleeding Hand, Bleeding Hearts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's prompt was Alana getting injured and somehow I'm forming a coherent plot-type-deal from these vague little suggestions.
> 
> It's also from Hannibal's third-person perspective for once.

"Good  _fucking_  god Jesus Christ what the  _fuck_."

There was another loud crash and the sound of metal clanging on stone. Swear. Crash. Swear. He should check to make sure she was okay—she only swore this much when he went down on her.

"Honey?"

"I'm not in the  _fucking_  mood to be your honey right now."

She was standing at the cutting board next to the sink, hands held far out in front of her. Blood was oozing down her left arm, her hand completely covered in the thick red substance. Her expression quickly melted from annoyance and anger to worry. "Have I got all my fingers still?"

" _Shit_."

"Is that a 'shit you're bleeding' or a 'shit you've chopped your hand off'?"

"It's a shit, Alana, I can't leave you alone for ten minutes without you hurting yourself." He crossed the gap from door to woman in four long strides, gingerly taking her bleeding hand in his. She'd opened a gash across her palm, and he was fairly surprised she wasn't screaming in pain. "Good news, you have all your fingers."

"Bad news?"

"I have to stitch you up. And it's going to sting. Do you want ibuprofen or should I use a local?"

"You  _have_  a local?"

"I  _was_  a practicing surgeon for a fair number of years, and as a result, I have far too many medicines and kits stored about. Do you want it or not?" _  
_

"How deep does it look?"

"Not horrendously so, but then again it's covered in  _blood_. May I clean it, or do you want to?"

"Considering I don't think I'll be able to see the sink, you should."

"Let me know if I hurt you."

"It won't be the first time."

He held back a whiny comment and turned on the tap, filling a glass bowl with warm water. He didn't want to open the cut further, and therefore it was best to take as many precautions as possible.

She nearly shrieked when he lowered her injured hand into the basin, not even attempting to fight the curses flying off her tongue. He was careful not to touch the injury, or to brush against the surrounding area in fear of agitating more painful nerve endings.

"I don't think it's as deep as I originally thought."

"You don't  _think?"_

"Fine, I'm certain it's not. I can put some butterfly stitches on instead. Less hassle, less pain, less needles."

"I'm game."

"Sit at the island and please don't touch anything until I come back."

"I can't  _see_  the island."

He stopped in the doorway. "You're having a bad day?" Nod. "Then what were you doing with a knife, Alana?"

"I wasn't before, but everything's gotten a bit hazier. Can I just stand here?"

"Yes, fine, just don't move."

Oh she was such a wreck, wreck,  _wreck_. They'd started having sex again (he hated calling it that) and her sight was getting zanier each time. She spoke of palettes and colors and it was just too bizarre for him. He was a surgeon, he was a psychiatrist; he didn't deal with the physical brain, his discipline was not neuroscience. He couldn't understand her weird visions and complaints. He could only sit at the foot of the bed and listen to her explanations, trying to imagine how the world must look through her eyes. Her eyes that her brain didn't understand anymore.

He wondered how he looked to her.

She said he was red. Always a shade between cherry and umber, hot and passionate and brilliantly bright. Could she still make out his face, or his features apart from red? He hoped. He'd been smiling for her so much now he hoped she could see it. He didn't smile with his teeth for just anyone; it was a gift.

She hadn't moved when he returned, still standing by the counter with her bloody hand held high over heart level.

"How's your pain level?"

"Not too bad. It only really hurts when I move it."

"So don't move it."

He flashed her a small smile, which she didn't pick up on.

"Actually, can I do this?"

"You just told me you're having a bad sight day."

"I think it's getting better, I can do this."

She reached out her hand for the strips, not quite facing him.

"Alana, no. I'm fixing you up. You'll end up hurting yourself more."

"No I won't."

"What's the reason behind wanting to do it yourself?" He opened a tube of bacitracin, applying it liberally to the strips. "Is this something about being stubborn, or is it worse?"

"I want to do it. I want to take care of myself."

"You still don't trust me."

She let out a long, harbored sigh. "No, not fully. I think I might always have a sliver of doubt."

"Still want to kill me?"

"Always." She smirked. "But I think I'd be too devastated now, if I let you succumb. I hope you're not too offended."

"By that, no, but I wish you'd trust me to catch you."

"You didn't before."

"And I've been kicking myself for it ever since." He leaned in to press a kiss to her forehead. "What I wouldn't give to change that one detail. I'd catch you until my arms broke."

"But you wouldn't before?"

"No, I—" he sighed deeply, beginning to dress her wound. "I would. And I should have. I was too consumed by myself to see a bigger image. I was rash."

"I'll say."

"And this is also about your lack of control, isn't it? You're a good psychiatrist, Doctor Bloom, so you should see it."

"I don't want to have to rely on you for little things, though. I told you I'd be a burden and here I am being a burden, unable to cut a fucking tomato without nearly chopping my own hand off."

"You are  _not_  a burden, Alana. I like caring for you, I  _want_  to care for you."

"You're so narcissistic I'm finding this hard to believe."

"I am highly self-centered and you not letting me care for you is making me feel like an atrocious host. I can be selfless. I came back for you, didn't I?"

"That was the opposite of selfless."

"Work with me, dear. Don't be afraid to lean on me."

"I'm afraid you might...give out under me again, and leave me where I fall."

He laid the final strip across her hand, growing quiet. "Alana Bloom, I promise to never crumble beneath you again. I promise to be your anchor."

"Always?"

He kissed her softly, tucking her to his chest. "Always."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "After all this time?"  
> "Always."


	6. All the King's Horses and All the King's Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Alana's vision worsens, cue cannibal guilt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Counting Crows playing in the distance*

She stood in the doorway for too long. The sea of gray opened before her like a great maw with a throat on the bottom of the ocean, terrible teeth lining the sides of the walls and the floor. It didn’t shift position when she turned her head, and she was growing scared.

"Hannibal?"

Nothing stirred in the gray, but his footsteps echoed off the wood. “Yes?”

"Please don’t panic, but I can’t see you."

"To what degree is ‘can’t see’?"

"Move your hand."

Nothing.

"Back to day one."

A whine escaped her throat, having been smashed in the face with a huge regression. Some days were worse than others, but this was the worse it’d been since the hospital.

"Alana?"

His hands were on her shoulders. He surprised her and she whimpered, feeling an inflated confidence shatter into glass at her feet.

"I was doing so  _well_.”

"Oh—honey. Alana, sweetheart, it’s just a bad day."

"You are using too many pet names for me to be comfortable with the situation."

"Maybe it means a storm is coming?"

"This is my  _brain_ , not my  _hip_.”

He seemed to flinch, his lips ghosting across her forehead. “Do you want me to take you to a hospital?”

"And risk you getting caught? Fat chance. You’re the last thing I’m letting go in this miserable gray world."

"I’m going to lead you to the couch then, all right? I have a few books to check through, but I won’t go anywhere."

There was nothing to do. Being unable to see left Alana little options in terms of preoccupying her wandering mind. He read to her when asked, and the descriptions and passages in his heavy medical books were helping neither with maintaining a positive attitude.

"Maybe you’ll be better in the morning."

She was not.

She was not better for the rest of the week, stumbling blindly from one room to the other with an old wooden cane. Being unable to manage herself was driving Alana up a wall, and she feared she would soon go insane from the still grayness of the world. He would hold her at night, and still no color came, and nothing moved.

In the vast plains of gray, where the wind whistled but never moved, she stood scared and hollow. The sun had gone out, his burgundy touch too far to warm her. The great oceans and fields and mountains and cities were gray, unyieldingly, undyingly. There were birds to hear, but no birds to see.

Her dreams were cast of iron and fog.

 

Hannibal sat across the room, watching Alana's chest rise and fall in her sleep. He couldn't bring himself to join her, and couldn't bring himself to leave the room. He could count the number of instances in his life where he felt helpless and lost on one hand, and each one pushed his capacity to worry further. He detested his streak of humanity.

But he felt small, unable to  _do_  something. He was the composer, he assigned the orchestra their measures. He was also the conductor, interpreting his score and bringing the music to life. In this movement, however, he held no control.

The little broken doll.

The little doll he smashed against the wall in a tantrum, the one he threw from the room. The little doll he scooped into his arms and whispered into her porcelain ears that he'd patch her up, he'd make her new again. He was nothing but a child with no experience in craftwork, no skill to refasten her shattered shards to make her dance as she had before. He'd botched the bandages.

He sighed and rubbed his eyes before steepling his hands under his chin. He couldn't kiss her eyes or brain and make her better. He couldn't wake up to find the past year erased from time, couldn't roll over to find her innocent and unaware in his bed, her smile not tainted with doubt and lack of trust.

There were many things he could do, God of his universe, but even with all the king's horses and all the king's men, his little doll would never sing again.

He only knew how to play rough.

"Honey?"

Alana was sitting up in bed, not quite facing him. Even in the secrets of 3am, he knew her eyes were staring ahead blankly at a space above the door.

"I'm right here, I'm in the arm chair."

Her head swiveled to the sound of his voice, lips in a tight line. "Will you come back to bed?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I can't..." He took a deep breath. "I can't right now."

"This is a change of tune."

"Don't."

"What's wrong, are you afraid to be near me now?" A blade was climbing slowly into her tone, cutting along both her throat and his. "Afraid I'm—I'm— _contagious?_ "

"Absolutely not. I'm appalled by your accusation."

"You've been keeping your distance the whole week, what the  _hell_  do you want to call that?" Even injured, she fought like a tigress. "Are you disgusted by me? That I'm not whole anymore?"

"I— _what_ _?_  Alana, be rational. I will accept insults and claims on concrete foundations but these are  _wild_  and I will not tolerate such remarks." He groaned internally, sounding as though scolding a disobedient child. "My feelings for you do not change on whims. In sickness or in health may whatever God who reigns above spare my soul dare I break my vow."

She grew quiet, wiping moisture from sightless eyes. "We never took vows."

"No, but I did. To myself I made certain oaths, and to those oaths I am bound." He rubbed his temples, feeling the fuzziness of a headache begin to press on his skull. "I am keeping distance in an attempt to not grow sick with anger and disappointment with myself. I hurt you, and now I have the pleasure of watching you suffer from my recklessness."

She sniffed. "And how's that going?"

"Having the time of my life."

With a long sigh, Alana shifted over and patted the bed. "Please come join me."

"I'll torture myself for it."

"I'm not asking you to stay long, just a few minutes. For me?"

He could deny her very little, following her wordless instructions with no complaints. With his head in her lap, she ran her fingers through his ashen hair, her touch gentle and smooth.

"It's not your fault my sight's regressing for the time being."

"It's my fault your sight isn't what it was."

"No speaking until I'm finished." She took a deep breath, resting a hand on his shoulder. "That, yes, is your fault, and I know you wallow in guilt about it when you think I'm not paying attention."

"I do not  _wallow—_ "

"No talking, and yes, you do. Your humanity bleeds clean through and you wallow, upset that you hurt something you love. I've forgiven you for it. It was a shitty thing to do, and it was a really shitty night, and of all the monsters to love, I picked one of the shittiest—"

" _Hey!_ "

"Shut  _up_ , Jesus, I'm trying to be heart-felt right now." She ran a finger across his forehead before bending to kiss his brow. "And even through all these shitty things you've done, I still love you. And you'll continue to muck up, because that's what monsters do, but I won't love you less. You can set the world on fire and I'll still have a reason to love you—that's how unconditional love works. No matter what happens, you'll still be mine to love, if you'll have me, and I know you will."

She leaned down again, kissing his cheeks and his nose and his lips, peppering him with affection. His hollow heart ached in that moment, for corrupting something so pristine to a state where it could grow fond of monsters and their destruction. Princesses weren't supposed to love dragons, and they both knew it.

"I signed my Faustian contract when I made an effort to kiss you in the hospital. I made my deal; the rest of my life for the love of a beast. I'm content with my bargain, are you?"

"Very much so."

"Then don't let this get to you any more than it's getting to me. Forget about the blindness and the slow-building trust. It's not important. It's not all sunshine and roses, but it's not all darkness and thorns either. I'll be okay. Recovery or not, I'll be okay."

"You're very calm about this."

"I've had a lot of time to think, and I've decided it won't be so bad—I just have to stand still and hope things don't move too much."

He smiled slowly, knowing she couldn't see. He sat up and nudged his forehead gently against hers, making sure she knew where he was. "Alana?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you for being patient with me."

"Just stop beating yourself up for not being God, okay?"

"I do  _not—_ "

She kissed him silent, fingers floating along his jaw. With a soft growl, he tugged her down into her fortress of pillows, crushing her to his chest. She inhaled sharply when he broke away to nuzzle her neck.

He lifted his head. "Something wrong?"

"No, I just..." She grinned madly, tracing a thumb over his lips. "I adore how cherry your eyes get when you're in love."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when did this get so sappy take my laptop away from me
> 
> How is this jumpy chapters-written-through-prompt format working for everyone?


	7. For Want of a Nail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sort of didn't follow the prompt totally, but it was supposed to be Hannibal doing something to help Alana's vision

"What color am I wearing?"

Hannibal stood before her in a salmon shirt and black slacks, all former formality missing from his ensemble. Being by the ocean in summer drastically changed the temperature, rendering most suits useless or uncomfortable. His blushing not-bride preferred the sea breeze over air conditioning, and wardrobe sacrifices were made—not that he minded.

"Pinkish."

"Just pinkish?"

"Pinkish and something dark, I can’t tell what. How wrong am I?"

"Salmon and charcoal, very close." He stooped to kiss her nose, making her giggle.

"My depth perception hasn’t gotten better in the past week, though, and it’s starting to worry me."

After a freak setback, her vision was slowly building back up. The more he touched her, the more colorful her world became, but not for any reason he understood. There weren’t enough books on the brain in the villa, and he couldn’t take her to the hospital without fear of getting caught. He had intended to change his appearance after going on the run—alter his nose, dye his hair, do something about those damned iconic cheekbones—but the gnawing dread that she wouldn’t be able to recognize him drew him back.

They were at a perpetual square one.

"I still think you should see a professional."

"I speak French, not Italian. And besides, I can’t  _see_ , how will I get there?”

He sighed, falling gracelessly onto the bed. He was losing a lot of his delicateness, becoming more and more careless about how he presented in front of her. Suddenly, it didn’t matter if she saw him as the hand-sculpted Adonis he crafted for himself, or if she saw the dragon scorching the world with his fire. Blind to his masks, she saw the man behind. The boy who was playing at being God, not the one who  _was_  his own god. He felt…vulnerable before her. Naked. She could not see, but she saw all.

Alana lay on her side, adjusting her head until her ear was directly above his heart. She hummed, content. “Are you tired?”

"Incredibly."

"From trying to help me?"

"From so many, many tiring things."

"Your heart flutters for the quickest second when I touch you. I can’t believe that. Famous Hannibal, whose pulse never rises as he cuts up his victims, has an adrenaline rush because of me."

"You’re addictive to be around. I must be human after all because my brain is processing you like a drug, and I have no control."

"So I’m dopamine and you’re the heroin addict?"

He slipped his fingers into her hair, playing with her curls. “Precisely.”

"If only you could be my occipital cortex."

He felt needles in his arms from her bitter tone. “You feel it too, don’t you, Alana?”

"Feel what?" She readjusted her position, wrapping an arm around his torso and throwing a leg over his hips.

She was a damned koala.

"The almost magnetic draw from the chemicals in your brain, the oxytocin, the newfound attachment, the need to cling to me like a marsupial."

"I’m under the impression you take little dislike to the latter."

He pushed her gently onto her back, kissing her cheeks until she smiled. “You’re right, I don’t dislike that.”

"You know what I can see really well, good day or bad day?" she asked, running her thumbs over the lines of his jaw.

He turned his head to kiss a palm. “What can you see, Alana dear?”

"Your eyes." Her lips hit their mark, square on his mouth. "I can always, always see your eyes, crimson and vivid. They get brighter when you touch me."

"I can’t think of why that is." He turned over, pulling her onto his chest. "Maybe it has something to do with the oxytocin, maybe not."

"You think I associate the color red with feelings of attachment, and therefore see it stronger when around you?"

"Mark that down as your own theory, please, for I said nothing of the sort."

"You were dangerously close to implying it."

"All I’m implying is that I feel attached and bound to you, and I’m asking if you feel similarly."

"You think we’re going to have that?" Her voice was low, wispy in the mid-afternoon air. "Full, long-term love?"

"Don’t we already have the beginnings?"

"But you’re…"

"I’m what, darling?"

"I always thought you were somewhere on the sociopathic scale."

"I feel guilty about what’s happened to you, incredibly guilty. You said yourself I wallow in it, so no, I’m not on that."

"Can you really love me like that? Even though I’m broken?"

He felt a twitch of anger. Those were words that belonged to him, not her.  _He_  was the broken toy soldier, she was the pristine porcelain doll. Of course he could love her; that’s all he could do. Poor, broken little boy who’d had all his love stolen, could do nothing but give the remainder to the pretty painted doll. He was falling so hard so fast that he wasn’t sure where any of it was coming from. He’d lost control—something he worked  _so hard_  not to do—for her.

For her, pretty little Alana. Pretty little Alana who kissed his monster claws and brushed his thick awful mane and loved every one of his fangs, even when they sunk into her flesh. Pretty little Alana, whom he robbed of her sight and her job and her dogs, but loved him anyway.

Pretty little Alana, who made his chest hurt when she smiled at him.

He hated this humanity. Hated it, hated it, hated it.

"You’re not broken." He tucked a strand of her hair behind an ear, watching as her gray-seeing eyes followed where she assumed his fingers would be. "You’re perfect and whole, but I’d take you any other way."

"But you’re Hannibal," she said quietly, moving to lay her head back over his heart. "You’re only in love with beautiful things and you covet aesthetics like women. How could you take me any other way?"

"Because I’m only in love with beautiful things—one beautiful thing, that I’d burn out every star for."

She looked up, lips taut. “You’re telling the truth.”

"I promised I’d never lie to you, and I’m keeping that promise."

"No, but I  _know_  you’re telling the truth. Your eyes get all watery red when you’re upset.”

He raised an eyebrow incredulously. “They do not.”

"Are you raising an eyebrow—oh my god I  _knew_  it! I never thought I’d be happy to see your frown.”

"How well can you see?"

"Slight lines of color, it looks less like watercolors and more like an oil painting. You’re smiling now."

"I’m elated you’re recovering. If you can heal, so can I, and so can we."

 

 

She was down peeling onions within the week. Scar still pink and tender on her hand, she wasn’t allowed knives of any sharp caliber. He was glad to have her beside him in the kitchen once more, fearing he had lost that when he’d thrown his bloody fit last winter. She was recovering, and for that he was immensely grateful.

"Do you want to take a walk on the beach after supper?" He swiped diced vegetables into a simmering saucepan.

"Where I can see virtually nothing? Sounds fun."

"Better than  _listening_  to Italian television.”

"I’ll think about it. What’s for dinner?"

"Minestrone. I thought you might like something more…homemade, in a sense."

She snorted. “Everything you make is homemade.”

"You know what I mean."

"I appreciate it." She chucked thin onion skins into the trash. "I have a French background, though, and a French mother with stacks of hand-written French recipes."

"But we’re in Italy, a country devoted to its love of food. Put that aside a moment and imagine how it could taste like home."

"I’m home when I’m with you, so everything you cook reminds me of home." She stood beside him, watching gray bubbles jump between colorful shapes. "Can I help with anything else?"

"Go look pretty away from sharp things, everything left requires a knife."

She said yes, eventually, though complained about the feeling of hot dry sand under her toes. Standing alone at the junction of tide and beach, she gazed out into the dusk, letting the waves lap over her ankles until they climbed higher with the rise of the moon.

"I loved the ocean when I was little," she said quietly when he joined her, standing too far to touch her. "My mother grew up on the water in Brittany, and she wanted us to as well, so she had my dad buy a big house out in the Hamptons that we'd stay at all summer. We all loved it there, even though the traffic going out was horrible."

She let out a long sigh, wrapping her arms around her. "Some years we went other places—the Mediterranean, the Caribbean—but soon we all left the nest, and I don't think anyone's gone since."

"Do you miss them?"

"Yeah. A lot. My mother was a terror all through childhood but she was just trying to be helpful. I haven't seen my brother in years, though Lou and Dad came to visit me in the hospital. They all must think I'm dead at this point."

"I doubt that."

"I don't. I was sick, then I was gone. Didn't leave a note, didn't tell a soul. They knew we'd gotten involved, and now they know what you are." She turned to him, the turquoise sky playing off her eyes. "If I were my mother, I'd think I'd lost a daughter. She loves a murderer then one day she's gone. Either he killed her or took her hostage, and in either situation, I'll never see her again."

"Alana—"

"I want to see them again. My parents are getting older, and I'm getting worried."

He broke their distance, taking her hands. "I can take you home, but I can't promise you'll ever find me again if I do."

"Don't make this a me-or-them situation."

"I'm not. I'm saying I may not be able to expose myself again, and if I hide from Jack, I hide from you too once you're out of my reach."

"And there's nothing I could do to find you?"

"Not in any reasonable amount of time, no. Not without aid, aid I cannot give."

She gazed uselessly out over the sea. "I don't want to give you up, but they're my parents. My  _family_. My sister's getting married in a few months and I won't  _fucking_ be there as her bridesmaid. I can't have you for any length of time, can I?"

"Our union is difficult. Trying, one may argue."

"I hate it." She brushed a tear from her cheek. "Every time I start to feel comfortable around you, something comes up to tear one of us away."

"You don't have to go."

"I  _have to_. I do. I cannot bear the thought of my parents getting sick without me knowing. Without me being there. Louisa's wedding and Charlie's second kid I can miss, but not my parents. I love you, but staying is a sacrifice I cannot make."

He couldn't be her home. He could never be. She could think it, and he could think it, but the reality showed when confronted with things bigger than him, more important. She could carry him on her shoulder, but her family sat higher, and they always would. It was a blow to his ego, and reminder of his own loneliness, having no one to crawl back to once she left him. Bedelia was in France, but she wasn't family. He had no parents to look after in their old age, no sister to check on and ask about babies and wedding plans. Perhaps for them, were they alive, it would be better if he stayed away, but the option wasn't even open. He'd made a home of dry bones and wet leaves in her heart, and now she was ripping it away. And he had lost control. And there was nothing he could do.

"How long have you been keeping this from me?"

"A month, at least. I'm sorry it had to come out now." She paused, laying her head on his chest. "Would you take me back home, though? Would you give me up if I asked?"

He exhaled a painful breath, assessing how much he'd regret his next words. "Anything I can do for you, I will."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL SINCE MY BABY LEFT ME  
> I've found a new place to dwell  
> It's down at the end of lonely street  
> At Heartbreak Hotel


	8. The Blue of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Alana is still considering going home, while Hannibal is trying to be as nice as possible, hoping that she will stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clair de Lune on repeat ad nauseam

"Which do you prefer more, harpsichord or piano?"

His fingers remained suspended above the ivory keys of the ebony piano, composing. Composing a response, composing a refrain. Another beat of rest and he answered. “The piano is a deeper instrument, the resonance richer and more carrying, something you feel in your ribs as you play. The harpsichord, which is much more delicate, is tinnier, sharper, and cannot be manipulated as much, I think. The notes play up my fingers to my elbows, never quite reaching my chest.”

"But which do you like better is the question."

He played a low chord, a soft trickle of violets dancing over his fingers. “Hard to say when each is unique to themselves.”

"How did you learn to play so well?" she asked, settling on the couch across the room.

"There’s a matter of years—I’ve been playing for longer than half my age—and diligence—of which I have much."

"But they’re two different instruments."

"Ah, but they are in the same family. If I were to go from, say, cello to oboe, that would be more difficult. First, because of the different clefs and second, because oboe is a double reed, and I’d be coming from a string background."

"Are you saying you play oboe?"

"I am absolutely, one-hundred percent saying I do  _not_  play oboe. I would sound as though I were strangling a duck.”

She smiled, resting her chin on her hands. “You once mumbled a certain passage was yellow while playing.”

"Did I?"

"Then you shook your head and said it should be some other color. It was a while ago, maybe two years or more. Does that help you play?"

"Must have been imaging things." He played another chord, more towards the Paris green of middle C. "Notes don’t have colors."

"Obviously they don’t, I was just wondering if you did something to remember, like your mnemonics."

"No." Lawn lime chartreuse aureolin. "It would be incredibly hard to format such a system." He hit a black key—mustardy-olive, eugck. That one never looked pretty.

"I’ve been looking up flights," she said quietly, shifting the conversation.

He sighed in relief and immediately tensed in gnawing dread. “What have you found?”

"I want to preface with this all hinges on if I can contact someone to pick me up or not, but there are a few flights with only a connection in Spain before landing in New York—meaning I’d probably have to phone my mother or sister. How would we go about that?"

"Get a burner, toss it quickly once you’re done, maybe call at a late hour so whoever picks up is too disoriented to attempt to contact someone to trace the line."

"And you’re sure you’re okay with this?"

He put up a fake smile, playing a triplet of invisible Egyptian blue, her blue. “Whatever makes you happy.”

* * *

She lay beside him in the darkness of the night, half-finished wine on her night stand. He was amazed by how small she appeared under the sheets, her legs tucked up to her hips. She’d been watching him since he turned off his light.

"I booked a flight."

"Did you? How on  _earth_  did you see well enough for that?”

"I had one of the apps on your iPad talk to me, and I talked back until I was satisfied."

He scanned her face in the dim moonlight, looking for some trace of regret or discontent. 

There wasn’t one.

"When are you saying goodbye?"

"In about a week." She swallowed, gaze drifting away from him and to her pillow. "I didn’t want to wait too long, just in case something happens. I’ll be able to make my sister’s wedding now."

He pushed a strand of hair from her cheek. “You’ll look beautiful, maybe more than her.”

"No," she smiled. "Lou’s always been the pretty one, with her long legs and blonde hair. Her face is less round than mine, and her tits are twice as big."

"If your breasts were any bigger, they wouldn’t fit in my hands. I think you’re the prettier sister, so what more does it matter?"

"For now it doesn’t, I guess. But maybe sometime in the future it’ll matter."

"And why’s that?"

"I…" she trailed off, rolling onto her back. "I want a family of my own. A husband and a child, maybe a few dogs. And I primarily want all of that with you, though the terms can be rearranged because you’ll never stop running. But if I leave you behind, and I can’t find you again—if my goodnight is actually a goodbye—then I’ll look for someone else, eventually."

"You’re saying you want to replace me."

"Not  _want_  and not  _replace_. I want you, first and foremost. I want to grow old with you, until the age takes our fingers and time unwinds our memories. I want to live every remaining moment with you, but I can’t.”

He stayed silent as she paused to keep her throat from burning too hot and the tears in her eyes from spilling over.

"I know you don’t want kids, and I know we won’t ever take vows—it’s not something you’d do, is it?—and I’d put all of that aside for the sake of holding you to me every night, but I can’t. I just can’t."

"And there’s nothing I can do—not even agreeing to all of the above—to change that?"

She shook her head, the curls of her hair falling from her shoulders. “It’s beyond you and me, changing this. The only way is if you find me again, but you yourself said that’s too dangerous, that they’ll watch me closely after I return, and they’ll hunt you down. And I can’t not return, I need to go back, at least once.”

"I could try, couldn’t I?"

"And then you’d be locked away. Look, Hannibal, you let go of everyone else when you ran, and I know you cared for them, especially Will. But you cut, you ran, and you let them go. Let me go, too. Let me run."

 _But you’re worth more than them to me, you’re worth so much more_. “Will you in turn relinquish me?”

"In time." She swiped at a cheek. "In time, perhaps. Maybe I’ll fall in love again, who knows. Will you?"

"No." It was a quick answer, sharp, and it pegged him deep in the ribs. "I won’t love again, not after it’s been ripped away twice. There is no charm in thrice."

"Even if I told you it were okay?"

"Even then."

"Why?"

"I made a home in your heart, no one else’s, and I don’t have the energy left to pack up and move out."

"How much you’ve changed," she said softly, turning to smile sorrowfully at him. "How much we’ve both changed since coming away together. If I don’t leave soon, I never will, and I’m sorry that I can’t let my selfishness escalate to such a point."

"No, that’s for the better. If you can keep your love for me in your heart, no matter how small the compartment, I’ll be happy."

"Do you mean that?"

No. “Of course. I’m not here to antagonize you. If you feel this is for the best, then it’s for the best.” No matter how much he’d ache and sulk from it.

"Thank you for understanding." She took one of his hands and kissed his palm, drifting off to sleep.

He stayed awake, unsettled. He had changed since her fall, he had changed since visiting her, since bringing her with him. Whatever he called love then was not what he called love now, and he felt foolish for considering the two feelings to be one in the same. Everything burned in queasy apprehension, from his neck to his toes. He thought his love for Will was vast, but his feelings for the princess in his bed were endless and consuming, washing great waves over his rationality. He couldn’t just let her leave, not when he—he—he— _needed_  her. When he struggled to accept the fact that he  _needed_  her beside him, always. Always, always.

But he couldn’t let her know.

She couldn’t know how far she’d broken through his walls, or how much of his castle she supported. She couldn’t know he’d grown dependent.

He brought her breakfast the next morning, slinking downstairs before the sun began to creep in the windows. He kissed her hungrily and carried her down the stairs as she laughed, swatting at his arms, reassuring him that she could walk.

She didn’t need his help.

He had her pick out lunch and got him outside in the sunlight, all his scars white against his darker skin. He let her touch them, kiss them, guiding her hands to the ragged patches of his body. She asked about their origins and he gave every scrap of information she wanted.

"You’ve been acting weird," she said Wednesday night, a spoon of ice cream in her mouth.

"How so?"

"You’ve been overly nice—you’re always good to me, but now you’re sickeningly sweet. It’s weird."

"If we have two days left together, I want you to have everything of me. I haven’t been as good as I can be, so I’m rushing to make up."

"Is this supposed to sustain me for the rest of my life?"

"No, there’s nothing I can do to cause that. I have one last gift for you, if you want it."

"Of course I want it. What is it?"

He moved from the couch, untangling his arms and striding to the piano. What came next he had been planning for a year.

It was gentle, like a slow stream under a full, quiet moon. Little ripples cascaded off the keys and to the floor, filling up the room in small lapping waves until everything was consumed in blue. Wide, subtle blues sparked with sheer yellows, off-white and graceful as a swan. They trickled down into red flowers whose petals melted back into dark rich blues, floating across water in a night breeze. The notes were long brushstrokes, fading in and out in intensity until they were nothing but suspended dots, blots of sound and color. It slowed, trickling around her legs and around his fingers, gliding to a delicate finish, fluttering into the moonlight.

She was silent for a long while, staring down at the melting ice cream in her hands.

"What was that?" Her voice was soft, as though she feared she’d break some illusion by speaking.

"It was yours, your movement in this suite. Come see the sheet music."

She rose, slowly, walking carefully from sofa to bench, eyes not so good in this light. With a hand on his shoulder, she breathed in sharply, eyes wide. A tear fell down her cheek as she scanned the white page. “It’s written in paint.”

"It’s shades of your blue. I wanted to see what I could—"

“ _My_  blue?”

"When you speak, your voice has a blue quality—Egyptian blue—and it follows with notes in certain keys. The piece is purple in some portions, and red and yellow, but it’s mostly blue."

"You have synesthesia."

"My perfect pitch is really just cheating."

She plunked onto the bench beside him. “And that’s your red there, in the middle. Can you play the part where they come together again?”

His touch was light on the keys, concentrating on how the notes ran like paint onto his fingers, how they mixed and swirled and became one color as they came together in the middle.

She sniffed, wiping her eyes. “Again.”

He played until she was weeping into her hands, her cheeks red and her voice heavy.

"Don’t let me," she said quietly, wiping her face with the back of her hand. "Don’t ever let me leave."

He sighed. “Your answer will change in the morning.

"Yes, it will, but you have to pick which command you believe me to want."

"I promised to catch you, should you fall, didn’t I? Always, I said."

"I’ve been falling for a while—don’t let me hit the ground."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah but is he going to do what's best for her or what's best for him?


	9. I've Made a Huge Tiny Mistake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final stretch! The prompt calls for Alana to leave but immediately regret her decision. Her fate, though, is sealed.

And then she was gone.

One long night and she was gone.

He hadn’t slept well. He watched as her chest rose and fell in her sleep until he opened his eyes and she was gone. They’d finished a bottle of wine, light headed and dizzy, from both the alcohol and the coming morning. She cried into his chest for an hour, and he was surprised the behavior didn’t carry to himself.

"I’ll play it for you again," he had promised, "the movement. Before you leave, I’ll play it once more."

"I’d like that." She had nodded, ducking against him.

But she was gone before he got the opportunity.

The villa was empty as he descended the stairs, empty as he made a plain breakfast for himself, in no mood to cook, to  _really_  cook. It was empty through the morning, and the evening. But at night, lying alone in the bed they shared, he felt the loss.

She was gone.

 

Alana was groggy and disoriented as she stepped into the terminal at JFK. Brain damage or not, she could always pick her sister out of a crowd, painfully blonde and perpetually energetic.

"Never thought I’d see your grumpy face again." Louisa pulled her into a bear hug, taking her slightly off balance.

"You’re going to crush me."

"Sorry, sorry." Louisa released her sister, taking her suitcase from her tired fingers. "We’ve just been really worried."

"Everyone?"

"Of course, especially Mother. We all want to know how you’ve been, but as per request, I’ll hold them back."

She nodded. “Thanks, Lou.”

"And now for the important question—will you make the wedding now?"

Alana smiled, comforted by the fact that little had changed.

The kitchen light was on when they got to their mother’s house. Louisa drove smoothly from the airport, her car rolling quietly down the darkened streets of Manhattan. It was late—so late in the night—that the city had finally started to slow down. It crawled to the dawn, never stopping, but not sprinting as it did under the sun and early moon.

She’d missed the feel of the city, missed the feel of other people existing around her, the closeness of human lives. Italy had been only Hannibal, and on the rarest occasion, people from the towns they visited on few weekends. There had been nothing but him.

Taylor, Louisa’s fiancé, stood over the stove with a wooden spoon. Alana had only met him at several family ordeals, never exchanging many words. But here he was, preparing food for his soon to be sister-in-law at nearly three in the morning.

Oh, her sister had done well for once.

"It’s not much," he said, placing a plate of pasta before her on the counter, "but it’s better than airline food."

"Thank you."

It was nothing like Hannibal’s food.

"Mom and I set one of the rooms upstairs for you." Lou sat across from her, staring into her own food. "You can stay for as long as you want here, or we can take you home tomorrow."

"I…I’d like to stay here for a while, if I won’t be a burden."

"You won’t be a burden."

Her childhood room had been redecorated and repainted since she was small, but the feeling of nostalgia remained. Safe under pastel sheets, she felt alone. Back in this house, she felt alone. In a city of millions, she was alone.

But she’d made her decision. She left. She’d woken before dawn and left his side, left one possible future behind. This is what she wanted—she was sure—but her body felt hollow.

In a week she was in Virginia, her legs lost in a sea of dogs. Will was green in hue and his smile was wide. He seemed startled, as though he expected her to turn up in the river, not his porch.

"I’ve come for Applesauce," she said with a small smile, knowing the words finalized her acceptance to stay. A dog was like a child; it grounded her, kept her from drifting away. If she had something to care for, she couldn’t regret this choice. She was home—and she was glad to be home.

Wasn’t she?

"Are you back?"

She nodded, disguising the tightness of her throat. “Yes, I’m back.”

His arms were strong, and she felt protected, sheltered. Tears came to her eyes, though she wasn’t sure if she were relieved or forlorn. He let her cry onto his shoulder for what seemed like hours.

"I won’t ask," he told her when she calmed down. "I’d love to gut him as he did me, but I have a feeling you won’t tell."

"I’m not playing for either side. Not anymore."

"Jack won’t be happy about that."

"Jack can bitch all he wants, I’m not getting involved."

"Just one question, if I may. Did you escape, or—"

"No. I asked to leave, and he let me."

"He won’t follow you?"

She thought a moment, recalling the melancholia in Hannibal’s eyes from the day she made her plea to the day she left. He had been upset and distraught by her desire to leave, but not once had he expressed an anger, or a guilt, just a long, familiar sadness.

"No. He won’t follow. He is gone from my life as I am gone from his. We’re safe, Will. We’re safe."

Safe was moving in after a month, unaccustomed to living alone. Safe knowing someone would come home after seven every day, having seen other people, gone other places. Safe was leaving on the long weekends to a cabin on a lake with a long fishing boat. And though the water scared her—for it moved and swayed, becoming nothing but a blue mass—she was safe.

She took him to the wedding, where her older sister smiled at her in her beautiful white dress, all the happiness in the world painted carefully on her face.  _You’re next_ , said the look from Louisa, for she had watched the two interact through the entire reception. 

 _We’re just friends_  was the plea.

Though that night, in a hotel room states from home, they were not just friends, colors and senses stirring into a long-delayed act that should have happened years ago. And as she settled in his arms, mind drowsy in euphoria, something was not quite right. Something, something  _very_  important, was not quite right.

This is what she wanted, though. Stability, a husband, dogs, a child—exactly what she’d detailed to another what felt like years ago. And though her wish was only starting to play out, something critical had gone wrong. She had a support network here, people who loved her. Her family, her siblings, and now (or maybe always?) Will, but it ached.

If her heart were an apple, a worm had begun to gnaw through, and the dream would soon rot. She needed to burn away the disease. She couldn’t get so tied to the past, not when everything lay before her in silver wrappings.

Thousands of miles away, he ruined everything she loved, but she wouldn’t let him ruin this.

 

"I love her," he told the dog, scratching the shepherd behind the ears. "I love her and I've let her leave me."

"Love doesn't mean an ending is happy." Tall red heels clicked past him, not pausing to pity his state. "You're acting like a child over this. I was always so impressed by your ability to control your emotions, but you've let them run you for too long."

He sighed, releasing...oh, what's this blasted one called again? Mushroom, Gumdrops, Cottage Cheese?

"Jellybean," Bedelia said quickly, drawing the blinds on the bay window.

"You knew I was struggling with the name."

"You've paused like that three times today, each time trying to recall. If you love her so much, why can't you remember the name of her  _dog?_ Your memory is superb, Hannibal, but I feel she'd be insulted by your current capabilities."

"I should get out of Paris." He stood, brushing off his vest. "I should go back to Italy—"

"No. She knows where you stay there. People have seen you."

"Do you think she's betrayed me like that? Now  _I_ feel insulted, Dr. Du Maurier."

"I think you should be more careful, and also to leave spaces that turn you into...this. It's nearly as bad as your obsession with Will, though this is less...destructive."

He wasn't so bad. Upset, yes, but not incapable. He could regain control whenever he wanted, but he felt that mourning this loss was...honoring her in a way. Respecting what they'd had between them. She was worth at least two months of his time.

"I think I'll leave for Austria on Saturday. No one knows me in Vienna."

"Do you want me to come?"

"No, I think not. Someone has to see to the dog."

"I could put her in a kennel for a few weeks."

"I don't know when I'll be returning is the issue. Maybe a week, maybe a year."

"And if she comes calling?"

"She won't call. Of that, I am sure. She has everything she wants where she is."

"In the hypothetical situation in which she  _does_ call, what do I tell her?"

"Tell her..." He exhaled deeply, trying to find the proper words. "Tell her that what she wants is no longer here."


	10. The Way Back Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The viewpoint shifts a bunch!

Sometimes, in the mornings, Alana would watch her reflection in the bathroom mirror. The woman in the glass was painted in oil paints most days, though when she was tired of this life, the stranger had less lines, her tones made of watercolors and wet brushstrokes. Lights made her face glow like a pale gold metal as she dotted her nose and cheeks with lotion. Powders and liquids the color of her skin hid the freckles on her forehead and the allergies under her eyes and the ruddiness of her complexion. Her eyes shimmered, but were dull, lacking some spark, like happiness.

This morning, she wrapped her fingers around the porcelain-white bowl of the sink, shoulders hunched and body exhausted. She barely rose feeling rested nowadays, the ache in her bones growing with every passing month.

"You've been acting strangely recently," said a pair of lips to her neck.

She touched the arms around her waist, sighing. "I've been so  _tired_."

"You've been tired since September. It's almost March."

"Maybe I'll feel better in the spring."

His hands dipped to rest over her stomach. "Do you think it's because...?"

"No," she smiled briefly, watching Will's eyes in the mirror. "I honestly don't think I'm pregnant."

"I don't know." He straightened out, kissing the top of her head. "You've been making some  _weird_  things for dinner."

"I wanted to expand my palate, that's not weird."

"Duck and steak sauce is  _pretty_  weird."

"Don't you have somewhere to be, like work?"

"Nope, President's Day today. Just us two."

She nodded, leaning back into his chest. "What if I have work."

"It's a national holiday, Alana. Better cancel those appointments."

"Or else what?"

"You'll have to call in sick—you're not leaving the house." He scooped her up, carrying her away from the bathroom sink. "For once, in what feels like forever."

She laid her head on his shoulder, breathing in his scent. It was green, like the rest of him, and cool, like a frosted forest. Something in the cinnamon woods of him plucked the wrong note. His arms were too tight, his chest too narrow. He was wonderful, and he loved her, but he was slightly off.

A harpsichord sonata played on piano.

"Should I make you breakfast, or do you want something else, like cocoa or soup or hot sauce on coleslaw?"

She laughed, swatting at his chest. "I  _told_  you I'm not getting weird cravings!"

"Sausage and eggs it is."

 

"You're unhappy here."

The blonde lioness stepped around the wounded beast. He hid his thorny paws behind his back as she passed, not admitting his hurts to her or himself.

"I am perfectly happy here. The philharmonic plays three blocks from here, and the weather is always beautiful."

"There's a foot of snow on the ground."

"So there is." He turned from the window, watching her movements. "And you've come because?"

"I haven't heard from you in months. Thought you'd be dead, or incarcerated."

"I am neither."

"But your suit has tears." She fiddled with a flower arrangement on the coffee table. "You're growing careless, Hannibal."

"What is the  _actual_  reason you've decided to pay me a visit?"

"You said she wouldn't call, and she hasn't, but somehow she knows my email."

His lips twitched, but no part of his mask moved. "And?"

"She asked how you were. I suspect she's as unhappy as you."

"What did you tell her?"

"Exactly what you asked."

He narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing. "You were always a superb liar, Bedelia."

She shrugged, her smile smug. "Wanted to see how you'd react." She stepped around the furniture, her shoulder brushing his arm. "Paris has grown boring."

"Too much culture, or too little blood?"

"A little of both. Have you had much fun since coming to Vienna?"

"No." He'd interacted little with the people around him, and aside from the neighbor upstairs who had louder sex than he liked, there were few options for his menu. Pity, really. Italy had been animal meats and fresh vegetables for the sake of Alana and her disgust with that aspect of him, but now, alone, he could indulge. "I've had little opportunity between hiding and seeking."

"You've changed, Hannibal. You've gotten soft." Her fingers lingered on his wrist. "She's gone now, there's no need for restraints."

Without the princess, the monster grew hungry.

 

Alana stared down into her cup of coffee, dazed. She'd asked her sister to drive so many hours to see her, just so she could stare and not speak. Louisa was never the patient child, but she was somehow managing to keep her temper and agitation in check.

"I don't know how to start, or where," she said finally, breaking the silence. "But I don't feel right here."

Lou looked around Will's kitchen. "Maybe it's all the dogs."

"Nah, I doubt that." She smiled weakly. "I've been acting so weird lately he thinks I'm pregnant, or will be soon. I can't have a  _kid_  now."

"Why not? I'm having one soon. Get knocked up, we can have Irish twins."

"That's not how that works, and that is not why I'd put myself through nine months of hell. I love you, but not that much."

"Will's always wanted kids, and you love him that much, so why not?"

She opened her mouth, shutting it quickly. "That's the problem."

"Which part?"

"I don't know if I love him that much." She cleared her throat, sitting up straight. "I've always been fond of him, and I know he loves  _me_  that much, but I just...I...it feels  _wrong_."

"You're still in love with Hannibal."

"Absolutely not. Packed my bags, left, moved on. I have Will now."

Louisa bit her lip. "Deny it all you want, Lana, but you still wear his jewelry. If I knew him better, I'd tell you if your mannerisms were similar. I should write a best seller, "My Sister Loves a Mass Murderer". It'll get famous overnight."

"No, I don't, I have to...I have to figure myself out, I guess." She took a huge sip of her coffee. "And even if you are right, I can't just leave Will. I mean a lot to him, and it'd be cruel to vanish in the night."

"Not to mention  _insane_  to slink back to a serial killer."

"He's... _complex_. He's gentle, and surprisingly loving, though he'd probably eat me if I told anyone."

Louisa sighed. "Babydoll, you asked for my honest opinion, and I'm not going to be nice about it. If you want to be happy and not doubt yourself or your feelings, you need to book a flight back to Italy. If you want to be fair to Will, you have leave him so he has the opportunity to find someone who will love him like he loves you, because that person is  _not_  you."

"I could grow to love him as much, in time."

"Alana, you don't have that much time. He's going to get impatient, and you're going to miss your window to locate Hannibal."

"How are you not disturbed by admitting that?"

"Trust me, I am incredibly disturbed by the fact that my little sister wants to go have cannibal babies with some homicidal maniac, but I'm trying to be diplomatic and see things from your point of view."

"Is it working?"

"No. But you didn't get defensive over a single word, so what day do you want to leave?"

 

This was wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong. This was senseless, this was wrong. There was blood on his nice new shoes, and this was wrong.

He never felt guilty eating anything—true, very true. This dinner would be exquisite. But everything that happened leading up to dinner...

His shirt didn't fall on her body right. She was too tall for it, too intimidating. He wanted to see brown where he saw yellow, round cheeks instead of hollow. It had been nothing like being with her, wasn't even half as good. Her small frame fit so beautifully with his, so completely, but the other one...did not. Too long, too narrow. Silent, where there should have been pleasure.

It wasn't even morning and regret was pulsing through his system.

"What are you making?"

He disliked the hands now resting on his body, but made no show of discomfort. "Liver with things."

"That is the least descriptive I've ever heard one of your dishes."

"To be quite honest, I appear to be on autopilot. Much more tired than originally thought."

"Don't burn the things, then."

"I would  _never_."

And he didn't, but he retired to bed almost immediately after the meal, making it clear he wanted to be left alone by locking the door. And jamming a chair under the handle. She wouldn't disturb him for fear of getting some body part cut off. He might soften while around Alana, but the second away, his teeth were hardened carbon.

He changed his sheets—everything smelled wrong.

He didn't like the sharpness of Bedelia's perfume in contrast to Alana's honey and watermelon shampoos, and the smell was making him nauseous, even with the sheets in the hamper a room away. At least his pillow was cold, though the space beside him should have been warm.

Deep inside the rooms of his mind palace, a cheerful Alana awaited him, smile warm on her pink lips. Radiant and wonderful, her hair shimmered in the summer sun, dress flowing with the curtains as a breeze passed through the house. It had been a marvelous day, he recalled, the first that she detailed her feelings to him. How much she loved him, how happy she was to be there beside him. They had turned in early and he made love to her so slowly for hours and hours, until they were both too exhausted to continue.

"If my sight never gets better," she had said in the morning, voice thick with sleep, "but I have you to wake up next to for the rest of my life, I think I'd be content."

"I'll always be here, as long as you want me—as long as you'll have me."

She wouldn't have him much longer after that sunrise, and the loneliness was finally beginning to gnaw at his bones.

"I have unfinished business," he told Bedelia in the morning, eyes glassy and rimmed with sleep.

"Business where? And do you want me to come?" She looked annoyed, having slept in the guest bedroom.

"In numerous places and no. I'm leaving in an hour. If you could do something with the rest of the cow..."

"I'll...I can housesit for a while."

"I'll call when I get where I'm going."

"Fine, but before you leave, if you could explain how the kitchen is set up? Or just tell me where you keep the coffee."

 

The sun wasn't set to rise for hours when she found herself awake, hurriedly throwing on clothes for the plane ride. She was going about this all wrong—that much she knew—but her thoughts were too jumbled to try and right this wrong.

"Alana?"

"Hey." She pulled a sweater over her head, stomach sinking to the bottom of the ocean. She couldn't do this.

"This looks pretty dishonest," Will mumbled, sitting up.

Slowing her frenzy, she studied the palette of his face in the dimness. "It is." She dropped a scarf and sat beside him, heat already starting to rise in her cheeks. "I couldn't think of a way to do this properly, so I thought I'd just rip the bandaid off but..."

"But you can't now."

"...No. No, I can't." Alana let her hands cup his face, feeling along his cheekbones. "I love you, Will. I do, and don't think this is because I don't. You've been so good to me, and I'm grateful for you, for all you've done, but I'm not happy here. I thought it'd get better as time passed, but it's only gotten worse."

"And so you're leaving."

She nodded, straining to hold back a sob.

"For how long?"

"A long, long time. I don't know if I'll ever end up back here. It's not fair of me, though, to ask you to wait, or to keep you with me when I'm unhappy—"

"But I want to wait with you." His hands covered hers, bringing them down to his chest. "If you asked, I'd wait a lifetime—"

"I won't ask, I'm not going to ask. It's wrong of me to do that. I'm freeing you. Go move down to Florida like you've been saying for months. I'm not the only person you can love, go find someone who can stay in one place and be happy about it." She took a hand back to wipe her eyes. "You deserve better than being stuck on a string."

"Where will you go?"

"To my mother's, and then, I don't know. Away from here, away from everything that happened."

"Not back to him?"

His tone was sharp, and she cringed. "No. Even if I wanted to, I don't have a clue where he is, which is for the better."

He kissed her gently, smoothly, with more love than she'd felt in what seemed like half a year. "Be safe, when you go."

"I'm always safe."

"And if you...if you decide to come back, you know how to find me."

She nodded, then cracked. A choked sob escalated into crying on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Will. I'm so sorry."

"There are some parts of us we can't control," he said softly, rubbing her back. "I want your happiness before I want you to stay with me—it's more important."

"Are you going to be okay?"

"In time." He kissed the top of her head. "It might scar, but I'll heal."

"I love you."

"I love you too. Always will."

Louisa didn't ask when Alana climbed into the passenger seat, silently offering her a box of tissues. When the ignition sparked, her decision was final.

 

There was a light on in the villa when he returned. No cars, no police, just one light. It shone through the sunroom, flickering and dancing, like the light of a candle. Suspicious, he drew a scalpel from his bag, hiding the blade in his coat sleeve. He stopped as he passed the front door, eye caught on the lilies. They were out of season and pure white, stems tied with a rich blue bow. He swallowed, finding his mouth had gone dry.

The door was unlocked.

It was dark inside, but the smell of honeysuckles dulled his mind. He must be walking through some dream, some hallucination. The shadow by the door belonged to a ghost.

Her face was pale, like a ghost, but she seemed alive. Her breath caught upon seeing his face, seeing him.

"I was about to leave," she said softly, her coat dropping to the floor. "I didn't think you'd come back here again."

"I had unfinished business." He let everything in his hands fall, closing the space between them.

She practically leapt into his arms. "I saw a doctor when I was home. I'm not better, but nothing's gotten worse."

"I haven't gone a day without giving a thought to you." He hugged her tighter, vowing not to move from this spot. He was getting so soft around her, because of her. This had to be a dream.

"I'm sorry I left. I can't imagine how hard it was for you."

"Equal difficulty, I think. I'd say ask Bedelia, but she'll be displeased to know you've come back."

"Why?"

"I...made a mistake—"

"We all make mistakes. You don't have to tell me."

"You're not upset?"

"I was close to being married, I'm not upset."

"Why did you leave?"

"I wasn't happy without you." She kissed his neck, holding him tighter. "I loved him, but I love you more. It was unfair."

"Are you here to stay?"

"I am. Wherever you go, I'll follow."

"How's your family taking it?"

"Not well, but my mother understands a bit. She ran away from her family to marry my dad, so I guess she sees a little of herself in me. Though my father isn't a killer."

"You're always safe with me, did you tell them that?"

"I think they know, but they still worry."

"I don't want to change the subject, but I'm awfully tired. Do you want to join me, or—"

She kissed him, shutting him up. He lifted her into his arms, carrying her upstairs as she fussed with his tie, eager to have him beside her again.

"If you need anything," he said, setting her down, "you let me know, okay?"

"What sort of things?"

"Anything. A ring, a child, a dog—whatever will keep you from running off again."

"I don't  _need_  that. All I need is you, the rest are just wants. Luxuries. You're my only requirement."

"Offer stands."

She stripped the buttons from his shirt, kissing his skin as she went. "You're desperate to keep me."

"I'm desperate to keep you  _happy_ ," he said with a grin, nudging her onto the bed. "I'm certain I'd hunt you down if you pull another stunt like that."

"We can talk about it in the morning. A family is a huge commitment—especially since I won't be able to teach a child how to read, or tie their shoes, or anything that requires good vision."

"I wouldn't mind. I don't think you understand how upset I am that you mean so much to me."

"I'm the soft spot in your walls?"

"My only weakness." He climbed on top of her, kissing her until his lips were sore. She was sweet and rich, exactly as he remembered, exactly as preserved in his palace.

She made the right sounds when he applied correct pressure. Whispers of color and emotions passed to his ears, her hands hot and body sated. Love was something she gave freely, but she pressed it against his heart, weighing him down like a stone. He'd sink for her, sink down into her waves, caught in her tides. She was an ocean, but she wouldn't let him drown.

In the morning, he was pleased to see the sun dancing off her skin, hair wild and face peaceful in a long sleep. She was still there, beside him, as she would be for every morning to follow.

"Do you actually want kids?" she asked when she awoke, face still buried in her pillow.

"You do, don't you?"

"Parenting is a team effort. Just me isn't good enough, especially when I can't cook."

"It's not the best idea when we'll be moving around."

"I didn't ask about the difficulty level, I asked if you wanted offspring."

"Not particularly, but my opinion would change upon holding a baby."

"So that's a no."

"For now."

 

They stayed in bed for most of the day, curled into each other's warmth. Alana was having a hard time believing it was real, that he was real, and that she was there in Italy beside the man she so loved. She'd almost missed him, having stayed a week before deciding to leave and travel elsewhere.

Colors were richer here. Her sight had been getting better, but things were duller without him. The red he radiated filled up the room, and she felt at home near it, near him. In the late afternoon, she drifted back to sleep, content beside the red of him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been...it's been an experience writing this. Finishing this, more like it. It's not the best thing I've ever written, but it's the first multichaptered story I've completed. I think I left it a bit too happy, which is probably for the best, all things considered. Nearly made it heartwrenchingly sad, but canon does that enough for this ship, doesn't it?  
> Thank you all dearly for sticking with me, and for your kind words (the comment etiquette on this site has always baffled me so I know I haven't really replied, but it means a lot). Hope you've all enjoyed reading as much as I've enjoyed writing.


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